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- Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,
But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Othello", Act 3 scene 3
- I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Othello", Act 1 scene 1
- The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "King Lear", Act 5 scene 3
- How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child! - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "King Lear", Act 1 scene 4
- Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince:
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Hamlet", Act 5 scene 2
- A hit, a very palpable hit.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Hamlet", Act 5 scene 2
- Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now; your gambols, your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Hamlet", Act 5 scene 1
- Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Hamlet", Act 3 scene 1
- To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep:
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Hamlet", Act 3 scene 1
- What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god!
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Hamlet", Act 2 scene 2
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